


the thorough physician

by wildcard_47



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-16 05:06:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21502354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wildcard_47/pseuds/wildcard_47
Summary: "For most diagnoses all that is needed is an ounce of knowledge, an ounce of intelligence, and a pound of thoroughness."Doctor MacDonald has a slightly embarrassing medical problem, and needs Goodsir to help.
Relationships: Dr. Alexander MacDonald/Harry D.S. Goodsir
Comments: 23
Kudos: 87





	the thorough physician

When the messenger from  _ Terror  _ arrived, it was nearly midnight, and Goodsir was just beginning to consider retiring to bed.

“Doctor MacDonald needs assistance,” gasped Hartnell from the doorway, motioning Harry to his feet with one mittened hand. “Immediately!”

“Goodness me,” exclaimed Harry, and startled up, his journal completely forgotten. He was glad he was fully dressed, at least. “What’s happened?”

“Dunno. Just be quick about it, will you?”

Surprisingly, Doctor Stanley was not in his berth, so Harry left word with Mister Bridgens before rushing into his layers and slops. Although he hoped he was being invited to  _ Terror  _ to assist in a routine procedure, and not for a true surgical emergency, Goodsir asked no further questions until they reached  _ Terror.  _

Once aboard, they strode quickly toward sick bay and the doctor’s berths. By then, his mind was spinning with possibilities.

“Is it for Doctor Peddie?” he asked, just as they reached sick bay. “Has the creature returned?”

“Not the bear,” answered Hartnell, and opened the door, practically pushing him through. “Don’t know anything else.”

Inside the second berth, a faint Scottish brogue rang out. The door was ajar. “Goodsir?”

“Here,” called Harry, and stepped through into the light, just as Hartnell shut the outer door. “Doctor MacDonald?”

When he met the doctor’s relieved, vaguely embarrassed gaze, and saw the man sitting upright in bed in his nightshirt, Goodsir realized that perhaps this was not a surgical consultation after all.

“Are you all right?” He set down his bag. “What’s happened?”

The doctor let out a sigh. “Aye, I’m all right. There’s no immediate danger. Just—well.” He flung back the blankets with a reluctant noise; Goodsir saw the problem immediately. “Probable case of nonischemic priapism.”

“Oh.” Harry tried not to gawp, although it was near impossible to collect himself so quickly. “How—pardon me, how long has your—I mean, how long has the condition persisted?”

“Five hours, give or take,” ventured the doctor with a grimace. “But on and off for perhaps the last few days. God above. You’d think being a medical practitioner would make the condition easier to speak of, eh?”

Perhaps this was why he had been called over. It was understandable that Doctor MacDonald did not want his own colleague on  _ Terror _ treating him for personal maladies. Harry shuddered to think of approaching any similar problem with Doctor Stanley.

“Why don’t you tell me what your health has been like over the past few weeks,” Goodsir said carefully, as he took a step toward the bed. “I shall, ah, take your vitals, and establish a history as you go.”

“Aye. Fair enough.” MacDonald sighed again, scrubbed a hand across his face as Goodsir took his pulse. “Well. You know most of it without my saying so. Not difficult to imagine why a man would want to keep warm in the middle of the night. And, ah, I’ve never had trouble before—nothing outside the ordinary, rather. No change in diet. No pain till the last few hours or so, just relatively mild discomfort over the past week. No hematuria or dysuria, no odors, no rashes...”

“And have you had, ah, other partners in the last few weeks? Or whilst we have—”

“No,” said MacDonald after a long moment. “There’s been no one else. Not since I left Annie, back before Greenhithe.”

Goodsir considered the most diplomatic way to phrase this next question. “Right. So the issue was discovered through, er, self-stimulation.”

“Indirectly. I, ah, had several days of intermittent arousal, yet when I tried to banish it the old-fashioned way… there was no resolution.”

“I see.” Goodsir cleared his throat. “Well. Have you ever had trouble ejaculating?”

“Not previously.” 

“And over the past, ah, three to six months? Any pain upon arousal or resolution?”

“No.”

“And no recent issue in maintaining said condition, obviously.”

MacDonald gave this weak attempt at humor a small smile. “Obviously.”

“Could be a simple case of nerves,” Harry offered gently, although they both knew he was lying. Delving into the patient’s mental state was the usual next step in forming a history. “If the problem lies only in the ability to complete the act.”

“Don’t know what in god’s name I’d have to be nervous about, eh?”

“Well. There are other conditions which might impede blood flow, as you are aware. I’d be particularly concerned about inflammation or blockages.” Harry swallowed, met the doctor’s eyes. “May I?”

MacDonald nodded.

Harry washed and dried his hands at the nearest basin, then returned to the berth, where MacDonald stood just beyond the edge of the bunk. Pulling the desk chair over, he sat down in front of the doctor, then reached out very tentatively, palpating the penile shaft with fingers and thumbs in as gentle yet businesslike a manner as was possible. No lesions or hard masses on the corpora cavernosa, the corpus spongiosum or the scrotal sac. Testicles ovoid, smooth, firm, and tender to palpation. No induration or irregularities with the prepuce. He ran a careful finger down the underside of the shaft to test for phimosis. Perhaps if retraction was the issue...

“Ah!”

Harry glanced up, saw the doctor with eyes squeezed shut, breathing hard. “Pain?”

“No,” MacDonald rasped, and let out the smallest exhale.

_ Oh. Pleasurable. _

Harry swallowed hard, tried to ignore the slight flutter of arousal in his own body. “Let me see. And—your digestion has been—?”

“No dyspepsia. Or urgency. As regular as you can be out here.”

“Good. All right.” Harry realized he had still not moved his hand from where it now rested at the base of the doctor’s shaft, and rested it on his thigh instead. “And no frequency issues—”

“For god’s sake, Harry,” growled the doctor, and sat back down on his berth.

“Sorry. Any possible pelvic trauma in the last few days? Or—or inflammation which might lead you to believe—”

“Just tell me what you’d recommend.”

Belatedly, Harry got to his feet. “Of course. Well, a careful diagnostician would begin with a rectal examination, to ensure the issue is not internal.”

MacDonald’s mouth twitched once before smoothing into a thin line, and he inclined his head in assent. “‘Tis what I would do if a patient came to me with such symptoms.”

“Good.” The encouragement, small as it was, made Harry smile. “Then we are in accord. I, ah, will need some oil, before we begin. Do you—?”

“Here.” A slight flush colored the doctor’s cheeks as he reached further up the blankets, and handed Harry a small vial of what turned out to be olive oil. “May not be well warmed, but that’s the least of our worries, eh?”

“Well. You know what old Abercrombie might say about that,” offered Harry with a smile. Briskly rolling the bottle between his palms, he lowered his voice till it reached its deepest pitch, imitating one of his most ancient college instructors. “Time and tide for nae man bide.”

“Oh, lord.” MacDonald’s anxious expression split into a grin. Without delay, he got settled onto his hands and knees, and pulled his nightshirt up past his bare stomach, exposing himself again. “Always so damn impatient at rounds! Did he ever feed you the other one—oh, what was it?”

“Lahckspittles an’ daddles put burrs een yer saddles!” They were both chuckling, now. Harry was glad to see they could share in this much, given the circumstances of his visit. “Hard to believe school was so long ago, isn’t it?”

“Far longer for me than for you,” said MacDonald, and let out a sigh, glancing back toward where Harry now stood at the foot of the berth. “Well, time to get the jags, eh?”

“Yes.” Harry tried not to belie his own nervousness. Long time since he’d performed such an intensive examination. Perhaps since his own licensure. “I shall try to be quick. If you could cough, please.”

“Not too quick, I hope,” offered MacDonald, and obliged, though the casual humour of this moment was rather extinguished once Harry inserted his finger inside the rectal canal. Once he was certain there were no issues with the lower rectum or perineal muscles, he gently probed within for the location of the gland. His left hand rested on MacDonald’s lower abdomen, carefully checking for tenderness or any masses.

Using his right hand, Harry palpated the second stage area till he felt the two relatively firm lobes of the prostate, and the distinct sulcus between and lateral to each lobe. He recited each of the five areas to himself as he worked: anterior, posterior, two lateral, and medial. First step: extend the finger superiorly across the top of the prostate, sweeping laterally across each lobe to check for palpable nodule(s) or localized areas of softness, induration, or tenderness.

“Ah.” A small gasp from MacDonald. “Not in-inflamed?”

“Not overly, no,” answered Harry, absent-minded, as he continued to examine the delicate internal area. In concert with this, he brought his free hand down past MacDonald’s upper thigh to press against the outer perineum. “Are you sure it isn’t mild prostatitis? You feel—I mean, the gland feels healthy, all things considered.”

He stroked the lateral lobe again with the pad of his index finger to confirm this.

MacDonald grunted, tensed, and canted his hips forward. “Oh, god.”

Suddenly, Harry realized that the examination was perhaps going a little too well. “Sorry,” he whispered. Since he could not extract his fingers without causing the man pain or acute mortification, he ceased all movement at once. “Reaction to stimulation is, ah, perfectly normal.”

The doctor groaned again, clearly frustrated. “Bloody well know that much.”

“Shall I continue?”

This had never happened to him during the physicals he’d given as a student.

“Please.” MacDonald pushed his hips back against Harry’s right hand, till Harry’s finger was buried deep within, just against the lateral lobe. “If you could—perhaps massage—”

“Oh. Oh, aye, I can assist you directly, if—if you think that would—”

“Haud the stick owre or haud hame,” the doctor huffed.

“Of—of course.”

Letting out a breath to release his anxieties, Harry set all conscious thoughts aside and applied his mind to the singular task. This was no different than treating a patient for hysteria, or despondency, or any other ailment.

“All right.” He stroked the man again, less clinically this time, watching for any sign of pleasure or discomfort. “There. There, now.”

MacDonald let out a small moan this time. “Yes.”

“Lovely,” Goodsir soothed, and placed his hand again on the man’s pelvis. He could feel MacDonald’s abdominal muscles straining against his left fingers. “That’s right.”

“Oh, god, Harry, feels so fuckin’ good. You’ve the hands of a bloody po— _ oh _ —”

Heat flooded Goodsir’s face at the noise; he quickened his motions, now circling his finger in a gentle spiral around the perimeter of the lateral lobe, idly noting the way MacDonald’s hips bucked forward at the caress even as he recalled the technique.  _ Massage should be gentle from the lateral toward the medial lobe, and down the middle from base to apex. _ Human bodies truly were extraordinary. How complex the circulatory and reproductive systems each were alone, but when working together in concert with nerves, muscles, organs, and the full range of senses? Wonderous.

“For Christ’s sake, Harry,” MacDonald groaned, perhaps in frustration rather than pure pleasure. Goodsir noticed that the man’s arms were trembling like slack ropes. “Don’t muck up your bedside manner now. I need  _ more. _ ”

“Oh!” The gentle taunt startled a laugh out of him. Perhaps he was being a bit too clinical, then. Amused, Goodsir inserted another finger and thrust both forward, pressing in only to pull them backwards, relishing the hissed intake of breath this motion prompted. “Any better?”

“Nnnhh.”

“Hm. Perhaps if I could just—”

Goodsir pressed his fingers in again, and when they were fully buried, he crooked them slightly, causing MacDonald to grunt through gritted teeth.

“Fuck.”

“Good?” asked Goodsir, although he could tell it was by the way MacDonald’s eyes kept fluttering closed. “And if I did this?”

He increased the pace, soft but relentless, till MacDonald had to bury his face in the blankets, gasping for breath, his entire body trembling on the brink of release. Although it was not fully audible to the rest of sickbay, Harry could still hear the man babbling a veritable litany of filth into damp wool, words like  _ fuck  _ and  _ yes  _ and  _ there  _ until—

“Let go, Alexander. Let go for me.”

A loud, wrenching gasp, and he did, clenching down on Harry’s fingers with a deep animal grunt as he came off against his blankets. Flushed with pride, Harry kept moving his hand until the spasms stopped, and Doctor MacDonald collapsed down against the bed with a shaky groan. After a moment or two, he turned his face to the right, expelling a harsh breath.

“Jesus Christ. Think you’ve milked me like a damn dairymaid.”

“Well, that’s good news,” Harry said cheerfully, and extricated his fingers with care. Next, he went to the basin, broke through the small crust of ice, and washed up, returning to the berth with a damp towel. Perhaps it was only a fluid buildup after all. “Here. Mind yourself. This’ll be cold.”

After another minute, Doctor MacDonald pushed himself into a seated position, glancing at the fluid on the bed with a satisfied noise as he took the towel from Goodsir. “No hematuria or discoloration. Normal detumescence.”

“Oh, good! I was going to suggest a three-glass test if there had been.”

“Well. Think it’s safe to say I’ve arrived at a diagnosis, myself. And you, Doctor? What is your professional opinion?”

“Well.” Harry blushed at being called a doctor, but sat down in the desk chair as he had before. “I—I’m only a surgeon, you know, but based on your earlier symptoms, and your responsivity to course of treatment, I believe we have resolved a case of mild inflammatory prostatitis.”

“And do you agree that we should follow this treatment by—”

“Testing the urine for albumen?” Harry nodded. “I would, yes, just in case. Especially since we can’t test the prostatic fluid. If you could provide a sample, I could even do it before returning to  _ Erebus _ . It’d be no trouble at all, Doctor.”

“No, no. Don’t worry yourself. I’ll see to it in the morning.” MacDonald shook his head. The tiny smile that had formed on his face widened till it became a grin. “And I think you can safely call me Alexander now,  _ Doctor _ .”

“Oh.” Harry blushed again. “Yes, of course. Alexander.”

**Author's Note:**

> I called this fic "apply directly to the prostate" as a working title for AGES, so please rest assured I take all butt-related medical procedures Quite Seriously. Related: even the densest medical literature [has rectal exam jokes in it.](https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK424/) Cymbal clash!
> 
> Another Serious Disclaimer: if you're having dick problems, I feel bad for you, son, go see a doctor 'cause I wrote this for fun. Wheeeeee!


End file.
